If only he was taken alive. Were he taken alive, perhaps it would be before the accent, when he could speak, communicate, share in what mirthful verbiage this brother done dropped and could make proper right the sparse Church all up ins what all with sermon and song and laughter.

And could be slaughtered in this supposed "deathmatch" from inexperience in fight and inexperience in voodoos and inexperience in seeing a motherfucker's life all up and leave out his peep nuggets.

So he'll take being rent from death into life and thrust headlong into the arms of a motherfucker's alternate self, who ain't done quite mastered getting a proper half-truth done convincing yet. He wanted him to live, and to stay, and he wanted a better carnival done proper, so what done got dropped was a wriggler's idea of the less embarrassing admission. Cute.

Still, he was left to cling and get his listen on of what explanation of these arenas he'd done tell, what all that these deathmatches ain't all proper real like deathmatches at all if they was done bringing back brothers and sisters all whole right after. It suddenly became a little... underwhelming, all of it. Death was sacred made unsacred and neverending what by the bubbles, done wrought the same here all now.

And he was in two. This was significant somehow, though the expression all up on his face would tell he didn't know what that significance might even begin to be.